When Hubert Sumlin was 10, he was already wrapped up in the blues. It was 1941, and he snuck into an Arkansas juke joint where Howlin’ Wolf was playing. These juke joints were rip-roaring places. This was no 45-minute set and a two-drink minimum. Just listen to the Wolf’s song “Wang Dang Doodle”: “We gonna to break out all of the windows / we gonna kick down all the doors …When the fish scent fill the air / There’ll be snuff juice everywhere.”

Mr. Sumlin stood on a pile of Coca-Cola crates at the window, then fell through the window and landed on the stage. The owner wanted to throw him out. But the Wolf gave him a seat on the stage, and Sumlin watched the big man sing the blues.

He watched all the great bluesmen, not just Howlin’ Wolf, but Charlie Patton, Muddy Waters, Sonny Boy Williamson, Lonnie Johnson, Robert Johnson, Blind Lemon Jefferson, Blind Willie McTell, and Son House. These are the foundation players, the men who made the blues. They played dirty, straight, deep blues, full of fire and passion, love and God.

In the 1950s, the Wolf called the young Sumlin to Chicago, and he joined the band at Chess Records. His style grew distinct. He’s a finger-picker, subtle and rough. The licks he invented at Chess are some of the most famous guitar lines of all time. “Killing Floor,” “300 pounds of Joy,” “Shake for Me.”

His guitar sounds like metal and wood. His riffs are thick, like paper tearing; they roll like cannonballs down a hill. The next generation, the rock ‘n’ rollers, wouldn’t have been able to play a note without him.

Saturday night at B.B. King’s on 42nd Street, the man was joined by what has got to be the craziest pickup band of all time. David Johansen – Buster Poindexter himself, the front man for the seminal New York punk rock band the New York Dolls – covered the throaty, deep vocals. A wonder, that was. Johansen strutted on stage in a black velvet jacket, with a billowing scarf wrapped around his tiny frame.

On the kit was Levon Helm of the Band. He smacked the down beats, hitting snare shuffles that sounded like his beats on “Basement Tapes.” Mike Merrit has played bass for Chuck Berry, Chubby Checker, Celia Cruz, Bruce Springsteen, Peter Frampton, and Les Paul, and he laid it down solid. Richard Rosenblatt, founder of Tone-Cool records, wailed on harp.

When Sumlin sets up the riff at the beginning of a song, he hits it, and your jaw hits the floor. This is not some approximation of the beginning jangle to “Killing Floor,” this is the real thing. Every nuance, every grace note, is dead on.

Watching Sumlin’s hands on the neck of the guitar, you’d think he didn’t ever play a chord. His hand just slides all over the fret board, coaxing blasts of sound. He wraps himself around his Les Paul, feeling it. He’s not tired of this. He hasn’t lost a lick.

He’s on his second round, Sumlin is. He’s recently gotten sober and overcome a battle with cancer, which cost him one of his lungs. But his record – “About Them Shoes” – is finally out, and he’s there, on stage, smiling and playing the blues. Thank God.